


the blessing in every curse

by elegantstupidity



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: A catcher with weak knees isn't gonna be a catcher for long. Good thing Mike Lawson doesn't really wanna be a catcher anymore.set somewhere in the tenuous future





	

Mike Lawson has spent at least the last five years of his career cursing his godforsaken knees. The back spasms have been no picnic, but it was always his knees that were going to be the end of him. Which is no surprise. Every catcher since the dawn of the game has had to contend with the strain of crouching behind home plate, getting battered by every runner with a point to prove. Mike knows he’s not special. Well, not special enough to somehow be the exception. Yeah, there was no way that he was escaping the catcher’s curse.

 

And anyway, the Padres had an acceptable replacement on hand. Duarte was, regardless of Mike Lawson's feelings on the matter, good at his job. He was steady behind the plate, focused on the pitchers rather than making a name for himself. Mike could respect that, even if a year ago he would have thrown a fit at the thought of someone taking over. 

 

That, more than anything, was his signal to throw in the towel. 

 

So, he’d made talked it over with Al and Blip and Ginny, too. Told them that this would be his last season. Made his appointment for surgery and everything, just a week after postseason ends. 

 

He's wondered what it’ll be like to exist without pain. At least, the kind of pain he’s been dealing with for the last few years. What’ll it be like to not have cortisone injected into his knees every other day like a robot getting it’s hinges greased? What about a life without ice baths or trainers or making someone else pick up his phone when he drops it? He can hardly imagine. 

 

If he’s being honest, he’s excited. Batshit terrified, too, but excited. 

 

Still, he supposes that aching or not, those knees got him everything he’s ever wanted. And if he’s gotta go out, then taking the World Series was the only way to do it. 

 

He’ll admit, though, that he wishes it had been him and Ginny at the end. Blip was right, she was his legacy, and he couldn't be prouder. It would only have been fitting for the game, his last game, to come down to them. 

 

(Never thought he’d curse having home field advantage, but, well, that's just one item on a long list of things Mike Lawson never believed would happen but did anyway.)

 

Doesn’t mean he won’t take his walk-off homer, though. 

 

Or the way his team poured out of the dugout, screaming out their joy even before the ball was gone. But they knew. Just like the crowd knew as they surged to their feet to watch the ball fly. Just like Mike knew the moment he took his stride, hips and shoulders and bat singing together in a way he knew he'd miss. That ball was outta there. The San Diego Padres crowded around the plate, a big, teeming mass of excitement and celebration, ready to welcome Mike Lawson home one last time. 

 

But Mike only had eyes for one Padre. 

 

Hardly even slowing down as he barreled into the crowd, Mike Lawson swooped in and swept Ginny Baker off her feet, whooping in triumph. She tossed her head back and laughed, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as she punched the air. He couldn’t look away. He ignored the bad back, the creaky knees, just looked up at this amazing woman in complete awe.

 

And, _fuck_. Mike might have given anything to live in that moment forever. To keep playing with her forever. Even if he had to invest in some actual robot legs to keep up. 

 

That, of course, came before he realized just what anything might entail. 

 

Because somehow, anything has become this. And this is some sort of goddamn miracle. 

 

Sprawled out across sheets with some astronomically high thread count—ordinarily Mike couldn’t give a shit about linens, but Rachel had loved them, so he took them out of spite when she first asked him to move out—isn’t such an unusual position for him. Post-break up, he’d taken every opportunity to end up in this exact position, actually. But that was different. Every woman who passed through his life was clearly temporary. Not the case, here. 

 

Because Mike actually doesn’t know what would happen if Ginny Baker disappeared from his life. 

 

So, really, it’s a good thing that she’s curled up at his side, hair wild and wearing only his jersey.  

 

Mike’s caveman enough to admit that the sight of her in his number was almost enough to make him roll her over and make that miracle happen again. A twinge from his soon-to-be-replaced knees made him think better. He settles for curling his arm around her waist more securely, heart thumping as she wriggles closer. 

 

“You’re not a ballplayer anymore,” she’d echoed against his lips in lieu of a greeting when he opened his door to her. It had been hardly half a day since the end of the World Series, since he’d murmured almost those exact words in her ear. He hadn’t been sure what she would do, if she even heard him over the celebratory racket, but he was patient. He could be patient. For the important things. For this. 

 

And, God, he was pretty sure he was never going to meet someone as important as Ginny Baker.

 

Which was why, despite knowing that he'd fallen in love with her, he wouldn't have dared make a move before this. Sure, Ginny had weathered her fair share of storms, but Mike hadn't known what he'd do if he were the one to finally sink her. So he hadn't let himself. Hadn't even planned on saying anything. 

 

But there she was, lit up by the halogen lights at Petco Park, and he couldn't help himself. She hadn't said anything, hadn't even acknowledged him, really. Everyone wanted a piece of Ginny Baker, which Mike of all people could understand. So, she'd slipped away in the tide of teammates and managers and Mike had gone home alone, ready to wait. 

 

Thank all that was holy that she put him out of his misery so fast. Mike could talk a big talk about his patience, but he wasn't sure if he could quite follow through. 

 

So, when he found himself with an armful of Ginny for the second time in less than twenty-four hours? That's when Mike knew he was one lucky son of a bitch.

 

And if it’s true that everything he’s accomplished, everything he’s earned—not to mention the trust and companionship of the beautiful woman at his side because Ginny Baker is her own person above and beyond anyone’s claims on her—has come on the back of his pain, his grit? Well.

 

God bless his shitty knees. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i never get into a fandom this fast, but geez do i love this ship. 
> 
> i am very aware that there is no point to this, but i had to jump in somewhere.
> 
> let me know what you thought here or on [tumblr](http://www.megaphonemonday.tumblr.com)


End file.
